" Clara was a pianist, which isn’t to say that she couldn’t play the organ. After all, it had keys and they were black and white, too. True, there were four times as many and your feet had to play them as well and there were dozens of stops you had to pull, which each individually made the organ sound like a banshee. It was similar to handing a pianist an accordion, believing they could play it because it had a keyboard on the side.

But Clara did know the organ; a little. Sweat prickled on her forehead as she fumbled, her right hand above her left on the swell and great keys. Her booted feet fumbled with the bass keys, sometimes hitting two notes at once, other times the wrong notes, sending sour notes rumbling inside the chapel. The organ groaned and cried like it was in pain. Clara gritted her teeth and continued sight reading the Illumination Sonatina in front of her. It went badly. The unfamiliarity of the piece and the instrument. Clara felt the nuns behind her wincing. The last chord screamed like a broken firework.

Nothing magical at all had happened. "

― Heather Dixon Wallwork , The Enchanted Sonata